


not your average virtue

by RenderedReversed



Series: this ain't no fairytale [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: #TeamTom, Albus Dumbledore's A+ Parenting, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Item Shop AU, M/M, Recettear AU, Sass everywhere, Tom is president of the #ProtectHarrysFeelings2k17 club, adventurer!Tom, and roasting, best read in series order, sorcerer!shopkeeper!Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9297251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: Tom Riddle meets Albus Dumbledore. Unsurprisingly, they don’t get along.Even more unsurprisingly, their topic of discussion is one Harry Potter.





	

 

Harry Potter is one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world.

Tom is sure. He’s so sure that he’d bet his entire life savings on it. Normal sorcerers don’t just heal bone and flesh and blood and skin in fifteen minutes, and then turn out okay after a few mana potions’ time. If that was the case, potions would have a significantly smaller role in healing than they currently do.

(Hint: they don’t.)

So maybe that’s why Tom is always amazed when Harry consistently does _not_ act like one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world.

Tom can list it all. Harry eats cakes and sweets like the apocalypse is nigh. He makes toys and playthings for children out of monster material. He’s helpful, and kind, and self-deprecates when he thinks Tom’s not looking—and even _when_ he’s looking, because sometimes Harry doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

He likes animals, likes hugs and affection now that he’s more familiar with Tom, likes the simple things that bring the simplest pleasures. He can be shy—a little introverted, but Tom’s starting to think that’s not so much his nature but the way he was nurtured.

Harry Potter is so painfully precious that sometimes Tom doesn’t even know what to do with him.

It’s the first time he’s ever had so strong of an urge to spoil someone. Sure, in the past, Tom was generous with rewarding his followers—those who were loyal to him did not suffer without due compensation—but Harry isn’t one of his followers. Tom can’t even imagine Harry Potter _following_. He can imagine him cooperating, can imagine him working in tandem with another person (preferably Tom), but Harry Potter, for better or for worse, is not a follower.

At least one of his problems is solved thus: Harry is Tom’s friend. _Friend_ , a word he has quite honestly never used to describe anyone else. His party was his party, comprised of his followers or his loyal, or sometimes (when he’s feeling particularly melancholic), his family. Friend, on the other hand, is a title that only belongs to Harry.

Harry’s friendship gives him a satisfied sort of feeling. Tom’s got the hunch not a lot of people can say Harry is their friend—and, who can blame him? The only possible reason the world doesn’t know Harry Potter’s name yet is that he’s hiding, he’s careful. Tom _thinks_ Harry is his real name, but he isn’t even sure of that. It doesn’t matter though—they’re friends and that’s that.

Well, that isn’t all there is, of course. When they first met, Tom flirted with Harry because he wanted to appear nonthreatening—it was difficult trying to feel out what made Harry uncomfortable, but he’s obviously managed without stepping on too many toes—and, success, they’re currently friends, teammates, allies, whatever.

The problem is. The problem _is_. _The problem is_ , Tom never really accounted for liking him in that manner—desiring to pursue a relationship. Harry is attractive, no doubt about it, but physical attraction is one thing. Desiring with a romantic inclination is a completely different matter. The amount of people who have been the object of Tom’s affections in the latter category can be counted on one hand.

A possible solution? Deny until he dies. But that’s never been Tom’s style, so maybe there isn’t a solution at all.

To actively pursue Harry is a delicate matter. It’s not that he hasn’t considered it, it’s just that he hasn’t considered it _enough_. And, while it would be ideal if the only thing he needed to take into consideration is Harry, there are other factors on the board that make Tom careful. For the same reason he told his party to disband, he hesitates. It’s not a decision he can make so lightly.

“Tom? Someone’s looking for you.”

Tom looks up from the newspaper he was quite frankly failing to give attention to. He inclines his head in thanks, and then moves for the door the messenger had motioned towards. The Guild is boisterous on a good day; it’s not the first time someone’s asked to speak to him for a quest or the like.

It is, however, the first time the Head of the Royal Guard Kingsley Shacklebolt has come looking for him.

“Thomas Marvolo Gaunt?” he asks, face not overly friendly but neither unkind. “His Majesty requires a private audience with you. I have orders to escort you to the palace, if you aren’t busy at the moment.”

 _Aren’t busy_ is the key. Shacklebolt is out of uniform, dressed down to blend in with the crowd. Tom doesn’t think he’s in ‘trouble,’ so to speak, but he doubts the meeting is about his request for citizenship, either. His mind goes to Harry, and Hedwig’s licensing documents, and the royal seal illuminated in a mysterious magic. Perhaps…

“And if I refuse?” Tom asks carefully.

“You may reschedule if your work requires you to.”

Something must’ve happened. Tom clenches his fist, wanting more than anything to check on Harry. Logic wins out though; it can’t be overly urgent if King Dumbledore prioritizes secrecy over timing. Harry is okay. Not much can bring him down, anyway—he’s strong, and they’re in the capital of Scotia. Nothing’s wrong.

“I’ll go now.”

Shacklebolt nods once, sharp. “We’ll go around. This way, Mr. Gaunt.”

* * *

Shacklebolt doesn’t speak to him at all for the remainder of the trip. Tom supposes that’s fair; he wouldn’t trust the information he gave him anyway. They arrive at the king’s study room without encountering anyone else.

Shacklebolt knocks, stands aside, and then motions him forward. The ornate doors swing wide open, ushering him alone into a small round room with a stone gargoyle in the center. Pillars decorate the outer perimeter. Tom wants to turn around and leave immediately—the magic is oppressive here and he knows he’s the subject to at least a dozen checks and identification spells.

Behind him, the doors slam shut. No going back, then.

The gargoyle’s head tilts. “Mr. Gaunt, I presume?” it rasps, a gravelly mix between a goblin and a saw.

“Yes.”

“His Majesty is expecting you.” Then, it cackles, spreading its stone leather wings wide. The wings expand to fill the room until there’s only enough space for his body to slip past between the wing tips.

Magic builds beneath the floor. _Of course_ , Tom thinks, _an elevator_. The runic engravings may be no better than decoration to him, but his sight makes it obvious. After waiting a moment, Tom steps forward onto what he now knows is a platform. There’s the sound of stone rubbing against stone, and then the platform lifts, crawling up the pillars right through the illusion ceiling.

When the elevator stops, the gargoyle retracts its wings, returning to its original state. Tom turns around and finds yet another set of ornate double doors. The magic surrounding these might even be worse than the room below—it’s a thick, ordered piece of art, like a spider’s web all laced together. It vaguely reminds him of the runic work Harry had carved into his golem slab.

He steps forward off the platform. Nothing happens this time, so Tom reaches forward to place his hand on the lion head knocker.

The door swings open. Maybe surprising to most, but Tom isn’t even ruffled. He strides into the room with all the confidence of walking into a store. If the king had wanted to kill him, he’d have ordered the gargoyle to do it.

…Speaking of the King of Scotia, he’s not here. Tom looks around the room—more like a cubby hole, considering the amount of knickknacks and books. _This_ is what he’d expected Harry’s room to look like: a mess of magic and knowledge with little to no space for human interaction, not the utterly normal bedroom he has.

Perched next to the desk in the relative center of the room is an exotic bird made of fire. It’s staring at him—not suspicious or angry, merely observing. When he steps forward, its eyes follow his movement but otherwise remains motionless, save for the flickering of its fiery feathers.

“So you’ve met Fawkes, I see.”

Tom’s attention snaps to the back wall—what little he can see of it, anyway. Coming out from a door that he could’ve sworn wasn’t there before is the Alchemist King, Albus Dumbledore. The first thing Tom notices is his horrendous choice of robes—similarly stitched into an elaborate magic pattern, but that part’s understandable—why, of all things, does it have to be such an obnoxious shade of purple?

Oblivious to Tom’s thoughts, Dumbledore hobbles to his desk, where he strokes the bird’s head. It seems accustomed to his touch, for it ducks its head and nuzzles closer against the wrinkled palm.

“He is my familiar: a phoenix,” says Dumbledore. “I am very fortunate to have him. He has lived a very long life, and yet chooses me to be his final companion…it is a humbling reminder how short our mortal lives are.”

Tom says nothing. Dumbledore turns to look at him. “It is a choice to have a familiar; it is a choice made by both participants, contrary to popular belief. Some say it is a weakness, and many other sorcerers never overcome their ego and arrogance to build such a bond. I am one of the lucky few, to have a familiar who will not pass until death turns their eyes to my soul.

“Humbling, is it not? For even the greatest beings succumb to death. In the end, we are all the same.”

“Equality does not come in death,” Tom finally says. “Those who are remembered are only the strong.”

“Time will eventually forget all.”

“It is the difference between dying in satisfaction and dying in regret,” he says, barely refraining from snapping his answer. “Given a choice, I know what I would choose. And choices are only given to the strong.”

“Do you cling to your mortal shell, Mr. Riddle?” Dumbledore asks mildly. “Do you feel you must do all that you can before death remembers your name?”

Tom bristles at his address. He should’ve expected it—the Trivia Wizard is Scotia’s man, after all—but that only serves to make his presence here even more ambiguous. This conversation is a foolish one; there is no truth to be found by it. Is it a distraction, then?

“Rather than lie like a dog and take whatever scraps are thrown my way. Dignity is not found belly-up.”

“And where does your search for power end?”

“It ends when I end,” Tom replies stiffly. But, unknown to Dumbledore, that phrase hasn’t applied to him in a long time…since Harry, yes. He can make as many excuses as he likes, but the truth is, ever since he’s met Harry, pursuing power hasn’t even been on his mind. It’s worrisome, actually, that he doesn’t know why.

Dumbledore’s expression clouds. “I see.”

“You disagree with me,” states Tom. “An unexpected opinion for one of your station, _Your Majesty_.”

“I was enlightened,” Dumbledore says lightly. “To seek power is a dreadfully lonely path, Mr. Riddle. I rather seek the pleasures of life, with peace instead of war.”

“And this pleasure involves philosophy. I see,” he parrots. “Unfortunately, I am not the man you would wish to converse with. Have you tried the pub? A drunk man can offer you brilliance that sobriety cannot.”

The king chuckles, nearly bare of humor. “I can see why he likes you. Why not take a seat, Mr. Riddle, so we may come to an accord.”

It doesn’t take a genius to understand who Dumbledore is talking about. That alone is enough to convince him to stay—but. Still. Tom eyes his chair with thinly veiled disgust. Dumbledore, in a grand show of magnanimity, takes his seat behind the desk first.

“I wasn’t aware we were arguing,” Tom says, and finally takes a seat.

“Perhaps; perhaps not. It depends, you see.”

“On what, my intentions?”

…He meant it as a joke, but the King of Scotia looks dead serious. Tom feels a surge of righteous fury for Harry. He recalls the royal seal, of course, but Harry is _twenty-eight_ years old, and his relationship with Dumbledore is ambiguous enough that Tom hasn’t known about it for the several months they’ve been friends.

This is absurd.

At least some of his thoughts must be shown on his face, because Dumbledore calmly says, “You see a pebble where there is a dam.”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, I didn’t know your specialization was in eyesight.” That is to say, at this point Tom thinks the respect due to this man is a grand total of none. “I’ve been told mine is quite spectacular.”

“Perhaps you are nearsighted—unable to see the distance beyond, the greater good. Not to worry, it is a common symptom of your age. I recommend glasses,” replies Dumbledore, pointedly fixing his own on the bridge of his nose. “Shall I let you borrow mine?”

Tom’s decided: he hates this man.

“You think before you have thought, Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continues. “That is a dangerous thing. It is subtle, and near impossible to identify on our own. And yet, it is as dangerous as action before thought is. Let me speak. Perhaps our conversation will reach a satisfactory end for the both of us.”

He highly doubts it, but it’s not like he has a choice. Tom voices the latter part, and the king does not deny it.

“Imagine my surprise when I found this—” Dumbledore unearths a slip of paper with a wave of his hand and slides it across the table.

Tom recognizes it immediately. He’s the one who filled it out, after all.

“Now what could Britannia’s upcoming star adventurer ‘Voldemort’ want with a Scotian citizenship?”

He shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like Tom Riddle is a dirty secret of Voldemort’s, or vice versa—yes, it’s not information that has been widely spread, but he hasn’t treated it like his defining secret either. Tom hadn’t wanted ‘Voldemort’ to have any exploitable weaknesses—hiding his true name was pointless. He didn’t want to give anyone power over him simply by possessing a truth.

He shouldn’t be surprised. It catches him off guard anyway.

“Moving isn’t a crime,” says Tom.

“But someone is hunting you for one, are they not?”

Tom’s nails dig into the chair’s wooden arms. “I don’t believe the King of Scotia would give attention to just any adventurer, even one such as Voldemort. You want something from me.”

Dumbledore makes a soft noncommittal sound. “This and that are two different matters, Mr. Riddle, whether you believe me or not. I wouldn’t need blackmail to suppress one of your stature.”

…It’s true.

“But this matter, this strife you have with the House of Riddle, could very well serve as your motivation.”

“For what?” sneers Tom, as incredulous as he is angry. This is a sham of a negotiation, he knows. An Old World Titan—not to mention, a _king_ —is an entirely different beast than a noble house. “What could I possibly do to threaten you?”

“Not just me, and not just him. The world, Mr. Riddle, _the world_.”

“I beg your pardon?” Tom nearly spits.

“Harry Potter is more important than you will ever know,” says Dumbledore. “You are already aware of some of his ability, are you not? Your shoulder, does it still hurt?”

Tom resists the urge to touch it. He allows his fury to appear on his face instead. No, it doesn’t hurt anymore—it’s good as new, as if he’d never been struck there in the first place. Many would call it a miracle. The Alchemist King treats it as an obvious fact.

“Truly a miracle,” he continues, unconsciously echoing Tom’s thoughts. “A miraculous ability, that. But perhaps you’ve sensed it already—that’s only the surface of his potential. And his potential must never be realized. You are the fourth living person to know. It is for the sake of the world that that number remains four, for the rest of his life.”

Tom’s not stupid. “You think I’m going to use him.”

“Know this: if you use him for your gains, if you use his abilities to found the empire you seek, you will have not one, but three armies knocking at your doorstep— _wherever_ that doorstep may be.” Dumbledore’s cold gaze cuts above the rim of his glasses. “And if these are your intentions, I recommend you leave this land. Go; as far away as you like, seek for power through whichever means you fancy—but far away from him. Far from him, Mr. Riddle, and never see Harry Potter again.”

There’s a lot of things he can say to that. He can ask what right Dumbledore has to threaten him like this, what proof does he have to be so confident, why he believes Tom is the key to destroying the world if Harry is so important—

On and on and on, there are so many reasons why Tom thinks this is wrong. And the most obvious is _Harry_. _Harry_ , who Dumbledore is basically demanding he stay away from. Harry, who is his friend as much as Tom is his, who would be crushed if Tom left, he knows. Did Dumbledore even think? What if Tom didn’t mean harm, but he was scared away anyway? Harry would be alone again, and he wouldn’t even know why.

Knowing him as he does, Harry would even blame it on himself. He’d think it was his fault for driving Tom away, that he’d either done something wrong or that there was something intrinsically wrong with himself—that exact line of thought that never fails to make Tom’s chest ache with the urge to hold him.

It’s not that Harry’s dimwitted, or seeks pity because that’s the only way he knows how to get attention. Tom knows it’s not Harry’s fault, because when he’s working with his magic, he doesn’t doubt himself at all. He’s confident, doesn’t second guess, doesn’t question himself or his worth. The Harry that self-deprecates isn’t Harry’s nature.

And Tom is really, really pissed off.

“Does Harry know I’m here?” he asks, picking at his nails.

The simple question darkens Dumbledore’s gaze, but the king says nothing.

Tom waltzes right on. “Does Harry know any of this?”

“He knows our sacrifice,” says Dumbledore, voice deep with the inflection of the Alchemist King. “He knows his worth, more than anything else.”

 _Harry knows his worth?_ That almost makes Tom laugh aloud, but he restrains himself. Instead, he lifts his mocking eyes and says, “Does he, now. Or did you make your sacrifices first before you thought?”

“You think the ocean is a pond. Harry knows his duty. He has wandered the world with its weight on his shoulders—he is the bravest, most courageous boy I know, to carry a burden others twice his age would shirk at. _And we have done our best to protect him_ —”

The memory of Harry curled up like a frightened kitten is fresh in Tom’s mind. “If you protect a burning castle,” he begins, emphasizing each word slow and steady, “it will still burn. Your soldiers are useless if they never turn back to extinguish the fire. Your walls will surround a pile of ash and cinder; your moat will only serve as an obstacle when your drawbridge burns. Your weaponry is tinder, your armory is melted. _Who are you protecting, if he hasn’t even told you my name_?”

Dumbledore’s expression shudders, and for a moment, Tom thinks he’s in danger of being flung out the door, but the moment—like an earthquake—passes.

“How did you know he didn’t mention you?”

“I know his nature,” Tom says simply. “Regardless of your opinion of me, it’s only Harry’s that matters. What duty can he perform for you if you don’t trust him?”

Dumbledore is silent. And then, he says, “In the past, I have made many mistakes.”

 _You’re doing it now, too,_ Tom almost says.

“You will not be another, Mr. Riddle.”

Tom wants to punch him. Instead, he tenses, waiting for the next shoe to drop. The king’s tone wasn’t promising, to say the least.

“Tread carefully.”

And then, in a smooth movement that no one expected—not even the blasted bird—the King of Scotia reaches over for the royal seal and stamps Tom’s citizenship form.

Tom blinks.

Dumbledore gives him a significant look, no less threatening than his others. “You are a subject of Scotia, now.”

…It’s a trade-off. In exchange for being at the mercy of the king’s whims, he will be protected from the House of Riddle. Before this meeting, that was a cost he’d definitely take, but now—well, it’s a lot less appealing now. Though, considering who has tried to kill him versus who has only threatened him…Tom still thinks it’s worth it.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He has not said a more insincere set of words this entire week.

“Give my regards to Harry.”

Tom smiles. That, he knows, is a bluff. Dumbledore’s probably banking on Tom’s dislike of him to let the bluff slip by. He’s tempted to be petty and call him out on it via Harry, but there are more important things to consider.

“Of course.”

After, Shacklebolt escorts him back.

* * *

Hedwig’s is decently busy when Tom stops by. Colin is sitting at the front counter, animatedly talking to an old woman and her grandson. There’s several vials of potions on the table, along with a jar of spices, and a small wrap of cloth as well. If he recalls correctly, it’s the silk processed from the Nebulous Silkworm’s silk fiber they’d collected earlier this month.

Well, at least he’s working. Tom watches from the side as Colin eventually catches himself and rings them up as he talks instead. The pair depart, and Colin handles the next few customers with relative restraint, clearing up the queue. Only then does he choose to approach.

“T-Tom,” squeaks Colin. “Good afternoon.”

Tom inclines his head. “Where’s Harry?”

“In the back. Filling out an order, I think?”

“Hm.”

He leaves Colin at the front, barely registering his sigh of relief. Harry comes first.

Tom finds him among the shelves of health and mana potions, checking off a list as he levitates set by set into a bottomless bag. His lips mouth inaudible words, but if Tom was to hear them, he’d imagine it’d be something like: “One dozen superior health potions, three dozen grade Bs, five dozen grade Cs, one dozen superior mana potions…”

He feels his heart swell, and then settle. Harry is fine.

Tom walks up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist anyway, careful to keep all his movements casual. Harry doesn’t even look up.

“Hi Tom,” he greets idly, productivity continuous and efficient. The wards had probably told him exactly when Tom came in.

“Harry.”

“Hmm?”

The one downside to Harry’s familiarity with him is that he can’t surprise him anymore. Tom doesn’t pout, but it’s a close thing. It was as if it were only yesterday when Harry was jumping all over the place, getting flustered just when Tom loomed a little too close. Cuddling Harry is an upgrade, no doubt about it, but sometimes…

Harry reaches up to pat his head, letting his magic take over dictation. The quill continues the same pace as it had before—yet another exhibition of Harry’s perfect control.

“Thought you’d be working today,” Harry remarks. “It’s been awhile since you’ve taken a quest, right? Since I kidnapped you for a week.”

“That was a vacation.”

“Paid vacation.”

“Paid vacation,” Tom agrees. “None of the quests at the Guild were interesting enough. It’s entirely your fault—you’ve raised my standards, Harry.”

Harry hums. “Oh no, whatever shall you do.”

“You don’t sound very concerned on my behalf. Should I be offended?”

“If it pleases you to do so.”

 _Harry_ is the one who pleases him. Tom squeezes him tighter for a brief moment before he returns to his loose hold. “I think it does. Where’s my compensation?”

“I’m working, Tom.”

“And I’m technically in your employment.”

“Which makes it even worse.” Harry’s hand pulls away, and even though Tom knows it’s probably just because he got tired, it feels a little like rejection.

His command comes soft. “Spare me five minutes.”

Harry frowns, and then—obligingly—sets his stationary in a free slot on the shelf before turning around. It’s unfortunate that the movement makes Tom let go—he needs to see his face for this, and the height difference (while generally appreciated) doesn’t allow that in close quarters.

“What is it? Tom?”

Harry’s expression is clean—pure—flushed with life blood and unburdened. Whatever had grieved him on that night he huddled beneath blanket and magic is gone. The ghastly haunt of abject fear has faded with time, but Tom still remembers it. Sunken eyes, bone-pale cheeks, a bloodless trembling skeleton wrapped in skin…he doesn’t want to see Harry look like that ever again.

“You do know that I would sooner leap into a den of flaming hellhounds rather than harm you, yes?”

Harry blinks and stumbles back into the shelf, rattling several vials on the process. “T-Tom? Where did this come from—”

He needs to know. “You know this, don’t you?”

“I—” Harry pauses, nibbling on his bottom lip, “I think you’re smarter than that.”

“Harry.”

“…Are you asking me this because you’ve thrown someone into a pit of hellhounds before?”

This time, Tom is the one who pauses. “I think that’s beside the point.”

“Tom,” Harry says, all sweet and precious and warm. “I think I’d be _worried_ if you leapt into a den of flaming hellhounds for me. In fact, I think we’d have bigger problems if you had to choose between hurting me and hurting yourself. C’mon, you’re not normally this stupid—what’s got you in a tizzy?”

In the past, he’s called his followers—his party members—loyal. They respect him, they follow him, they’re faithful and obedient. They desire his success because it’s equivalent to their own. They’re loyal.

What he feels for Harry is different. And Tom hates that Albus “my glasses make me better than you” Dumbledore thinks he can know, just from secondhand information. He hates how something so private and new and raw has been given an erroneous definition by someone who has no right defining it. He doesn’t know if Harry feels the same way, to be honest, but it’s likely that he does.

“Have you ever healed someone else?” asks Tom, lowering his voice for extra security.

Harry blinks, and then asks in return: “What do you mean?”

“A wound, like my shoulder.”

“…Well, I’ve had practice, if that’s what you’re asking.”

In a way, he was. But that’s not exactly what he means, so Tom tries again, tries to draw an answer out by leading Harry’s thoughts. “But it’s not something you normally do.”

“No,” Harry agrees, “it isn’t. I wanted to be a healer once, but that was when I was very young.”

“But you weren’t out of practice, then?”

For a moment, Harry looks confused, and then he understands. “No, of course not—that sort of thing isn’t something you forget. It’s kind of like—like one of those memories that stick with you, except instead of a memory it’s a skill. Something about it stands out, so you remember it, even when you forget what happened the moment after.”

“Was it…” Tom pauses, “Was it during the war?”

Harry’s body shudders. And then, very quietly, he says, “Yes.”

 _The fourth living person to know_. Tom wonders how many fourths there were; if maybe there were fifths, and sixths, and sevenths, and eighths—all gone now, and the dead don’t tell secrets.

“And I imagine,” Tom begins, trying to phrase it right, “in your travels, you may have come across others…”

Harry shakes his head, but it’s not out of denial. He’s shaking his head, presses close to Tom so that he can’t see his face anymore. Tom wraps his arms around his shoulders and waits.

“I couldn’t,” he whispers. It’s so quiet that Tom has to strain his ears to hear. “I _couldn’t_. I wanted to, in the beginning, but I _couldn’t_ …”

“You didn’t hesitate with me,” Tom murmurs.

Harry laughs, wet and sad. “It’s ‘cause I _wouldn’t_. And I wasn’t…wasn’t… Merlin, wouldn’t know what I’d do if I _couldn’t_ …”

“Don’t cry.”

“‘S too late for that.”

Tom stiffens. He’s not good with tears. No one’s ever expected him to handle them before.

“S’okay, Tom,” murmurs Harry. “I’m okay, you don’t have to do anything.”

“Let me make you happy again?”

“S’okay,” he repeats. “Just…give me a moment. Sorry.”

He does, but still. “I made you cry,” Tom says. It’s as close as he dares to get to a protest.

“ _You_ make me happy,” corrects Harry. “All the time. Mostly. When you’re not frustrating me. Actually, on second thought, do less of that and we’re kosher.”

Ridiculous. Harry Potter is ridiculous. And maybe Tom is a little ridiculous too, because he feels ready to fight tooth and nail against Albus Dumbledore if that means he gets to stay here, to have this. It’s a fight common sense says he’ll lose, but Tom's not stupid.

If they're fighting with teeth and nails, he'll just bring a sword.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so unsatisfied with this like you wouldn't believe. It's probably obvious in how bad the word count is (nearing rates of _desperate times call for criminal measures_ ). 
> 
> It's just. Harry's a real tough cookie, and Tom is beginning to figure out his misunderstandings. I don't think Tom idolizes him for what he thinks he is (pure and good, mostly), because those aren't values he upholds, but it may bewilder (or at least fascinate) him to a point that he mentions it in a bit of amazement. 
> 
> It's really frustrating working with their feelings, because some of it is just! not logical! but at the same time! I just.
> 
> They're not free of criticism, and Dumbledore proves that. But??? They're my babies??? And I think their feelings are right, under some loose definition of 'right.' Like they genuinely care about each other, and does it really matter if there's some clear logical reason behind the strength of their affections? Why can't they just do a good for each other, and subconsciously just...like each other as people, so that helps in increasing their affections? 
> 
> It's not just romance!!! Like I don't think if Harry said "I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way about you" then Tom would suddenly go, "I hate this place and I hate you and it's time to GO KILL MY DAD AND TAKE OVER THE WORLD!!!" Like, no. That's not character development--that's just doing something to make the other person like you back. That's just...so...temporary! And that's not what's going here, I really don't think it is. 
> 
> As much as I like to joke about how they're already married and stuff, totally dating and head over heels for each other, their feelings are just...a mix of everything? Like Tom acknowledges he's attracted to Harry, but _even if he wasn't_ , we'd still see the same care towards him as we do now. It's funny because I wouldn't call it platonic either, because there are clearly feelings going around like the flu, but the _care_ itself (the part where they love who the other is) is genuinely just...they clicked.
> 
> Harry helps Tom be a better person, and Tom helps Harry be the person he never thought he could be.
> 
> SORRY THIS INSTALLMENT RUINED ME. RANT OVER.
> 
>  **tl;dr: Albus hecking Dumbledore made me a self-righteous mess** , and I'm the one who wrote him that way damn it. -sobs- Yeah, this sure ain't no fairytale, folks.


End file.
